


don't ask me why then roll your eyes at the answer

by Quintessentia



Series: Hitman!AU [2]
Category: Septiplier - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff and Angst, M/M, hair dye ruins relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6437710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quintessentia/pseuds/Quintessentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They only fight over stupid shit: like life, death, and pink hair dye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't ask me why then roll your eyes at the answer

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the Hitman/Soulmate AU series (based on earthbooty's criminal AU art on tumblr), so it's set in the same universe and takes place sometime after the first installment. It does not, however, pick up immediately after the events of that particular story. This series will contain multiple snapshots from the same universe, but they won't necessarily be in order, in case anyone's confused. (If you want a direct follow up to the first part, I'll probably be posting one of those soon.)
> 
> Title from What You Need by Bring Me the Horizon.

Mark sees the box sitting on the motel room table and then looks at Jack like he’s a cat and Mark is the proud new owner of a dismembered bird carcass.

“This is fucking stupid,” he says.

“It’s not stupid, you’re just a fuckin’ baby,” Jack hisses back, not looking at him. He’s not putting up with Mark’s attitude today.

“It’s not even my favorite color.”

“I don’t care,” Jack grunts through his teeth, typing furiously as though the clacking of the keyboard will drown out Mark’s whining. “It’s either that or shave it all off.”

Mark slams both hands down on the motel table, almost hard enough to jostle the soda resting precariously near the edge.

“I’m not dying my fucking hair, _Sean_ ,” he growls, like using Jack’s real name in the middle of an argument didn’t lose its effectiveness a month into their relationship. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

Jack’s teeth grind together so hard he thinks they’ll fuse into one another.

“I’m trying to keep you alive, you whining sack of shit,” he says, finally glancing at Mark out of the corner of his eye and fixing him with a Look. “You asked me if I had any ideas for a good cover and I told you. I’m just doing my job, yeah? You wanna maybe let me?”

Mark rolls his eyes, which is number two on the list of things he does that he knows make Jack want to rip his hair out by the roots. With the way this argument is going, Jack can only imagine that Mark’s going to work his way up to number one very, very soon.

“Yeah, and I’m trying to do _my_ job, which is track a drug-ring without them noticing me two minutes into me tailing them,” Mark gestures wildly at the box of hair dye like it might explode on him any minute. “I think having bright pink fucking hair is a little bit of a tip off, don’t you?”

Jack kind of really wants to punch something, which is a fairly unusual feeling for him since he’s spent most of his life far away from anything aggravating enough to make him resort to violence.

Things have changed considerably since he met Mark.

“Listen,” he meets Mark’s gaze head on, leaning forward so his beloved soulmate gets the fucking picture that he’s done his research and he knows his fucking shit. “Those assholes have some damn good intel, okay? I don’t know who they’ve got or how they got them, but they know stuff. Stuff about you.”

He slams a printed copy of an alert posted within the drug-ring’s communication files that he’d spent _hours_ un-encrypting, and runs an exasperated hand through his hair.

“It took me forever to find this while I was searching through some of their known online hotspots and communication logs. They have files made on every adversary in the business, including every bounty hunter, law enforcement officer, and hitman that has or is planning to attack them at any point in the future—and that includes _you_.”

Mark just stares at the paper.

“So what?” he says, voice growing in pitch as his irritation does. “Who cares if they know a guy with black hair and brown eyes is coming for their Kingpin? I bet that description fits roughly eighty percent of the people who want any of them dead or out of operation right now.”

“Mark,” Jack runs a hand down his face in frustration. The desperation is setting a little earlier than it usually does when they fight, and Jack feels exhaustion creeping into his bones at an alarming rate. “They have a full description of someone who looks exactly like you, they know your kill history, who hired you, your tracking patterns, everything! Bottom line, you can’t go out after them looking or acting the way you do. You’ll be had in minutes, and by had I mean _dead_.”

His voice cracks a little on the last word, because he can barely handle seeing a gun in real life, and the idea of Mark being shot somewhere by himself, defenseless and alone because Jack wasn’t smart enough to prepare him for what was coming…

“I’m not risking your life because you’re afraid of a little hair dye and a nose piercing,” he says more quietly, frowning up at Mark. “You’d do the same thing if it were my life on the line.”

Mark stutters, gaping slightly down at Jack because despite how much they argue, he’s never used that line on Mark, ever.

“That-That’s not fair,” Mark’s tripping over his words, scowling down at him. “It’s not the same at all. You’re different.”

Jack snorts.

“How?” he challenges.

Mark’s glare hardens and he crosses his arms, a move that might intimidate someone who doesn’t know him the way Jack knows him. He’s seen Mark at his best and his worst, at his silliest and his strangest. There’s very little about him these days that Jack finds frightening.

“You’re forgetting that I’d never send you into danger for no reason, Jack,” he replies, like he’s talking to a five year old and it makes Jack bristle a little, which is number three on the list of things Mark does that Make Jack Want to DieTM.

“If I had my way you wouldn’t be involved in any of this at all. You’d be somewhere far away from this whole business, where no one would have any reason to want to kill you, so no, it’s not the same. Not at all.”

Jack has to unclench his jaw in order to answer properly.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child,” he grits out. “And yes, it is the same. You’d never send me anywhere unprepared for anything, because you don’t have a choice in this. I’m part of your life now, whether you like it or not, and that includes all of the danger that comes with it. You can either get used to it or you can continue to be miserable, but nothing’s gonna change, sorry.”

“Quit fucking twisting my words,” Mark’s more on edge than he’s been in awhile, and Jack wonders why pink hair dye has the power to cause arguments this shitty. Maybe they’re just that dysfunctional. “I never said I don’t want you here. I said I don’t want you in my job because I want to keep you safe. Those aren’t the same things.”

For a man who likes to be straightforward, Mark sure has been full of a lot of shit recently.

Jack’s chair makes an angry scraping sound on the floor as he slides it back, stalking across the room at a heated pace. He can’t quite look at Mark right now, he’s so frustrated. It’s like talking to a goddamn brick wall.

“And I told you to quit treating me like a fucking toddler!” he shouts, throwing his hands up in the air as though maybe the heavens alone have all the answers to their problems. “You don’t get to decide what I can and cannot do just because it inconveniences you. If you think I’m getting in the way of your job then just say it, but don’t beat around the bush pretending you’re worried about my safety when I rarely even leave the hotel room!”

“Why do you keep twisting what I’m saying?” Mark snarls, and the sound of a fist hitting the hardwood of the table makes Jack jump nearly a mile in the air. Bastard. “I don’t give a damn about what you do—I just don’t want you getting yourself killed on my watch! I’m not gonna have your blood on my hands over something as trivial as—.”

Jack hits the fucking roof.

“You know what?” he sneers, turning back around so he can look Mark directly in the eyes again. Fuck being a coward about any of this, he’s done. “If you don’t give a damn about what I do, then you don’t need to see me right now. You can’t take my advice for shit, you won’t take me seriously, and your priorities are so fucking out of whack that not even I can help you sort them out. If you wanna get murdered in two seconds flat because you couldn’t be bothered to admit that I actually know what I’m talking about for once, then _be my fucking guest_.”

Mark’s cheeks are dark red and the line of his shoulders is so tense Jack thinks he might just be about to explode. Mark breathes sharply through his nose.

“You don’t understand,” his hands are balled into fists. They’re shaking suddenly. “You don’t understand anything, Jack. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. You haven’t seen a damn thing.”

Mark’s voice sounds like he’s been chewing on crushed glass for how broken it is. Jack can hear the hurt and the frustration seeping through the layers of the anger and tension in the room, and he feels dizzy with confusion and ire.

“You’re not winning this fight,” Mark continues, and his voice is thick. “I’m not losing you, not ever. I can’t.”

His voice breaks completely on the last few words and then he’s gone, striding so quickly from their room that it’s empty within seconds. Jack catches the shine of tears on his face as he goes, and at the sound of the door slamming, the rest of his energy leaves him. He buries his face in his hands.

He made Mark cry.

That’s number one on his list.

-.-

Jack doesn’t know what to do.

This isn’t the first time they’ve fought, not by a long shot, because the universe is a bitch sometimes and the two of them give ‘unlikely pair’ a whole new dictionary definition.

Still, whenever Mark gets upset—really and truly upset like he did not two hours ago—Jack feels like he’s responsible for the outcome of the argument. He doesn’t exactly feel guilty about pushing Mark to change his cover, because safety is a non-negotiable thing, no matter how good at his job Mark thinks he is, but he feels at fault for how it ended.

He lies back on the bed, wishing it weren’t so incredibly stuffy in this goddamned overheated hotel room with a broken AC unit, and tries to shake off the feeling that he could have been the one to end the fight before it started. Jack tries incredibly hard sometimes not to let his emotions get the best of him, but he spent so many years with minimal human contact that his social skills are almost completely derelict.

There are days when his mind completely blanks out, unable to come up with an appropriate response to anything that isn’t a disinterested hum, and were Mark not his literal soulmate, he wonders how quickly he’d have grown tired of Jack.

In times like these, when tact and self-control are paramount, Jack falls short more often than not.

He turns to the side, rubbing his cheek against the cool side of the pillow and wondering how long it will take Mark to give up on avoiding him and come back. He can feel distantly how tumultuous Mark’s emotions are—perks of the soulmate connection doing its job—but other than frustration and worry mangled by bone-deep exhaustion, he can’t tell exactly how much the other man has managed to calm down.

Jack wishes he knew how far away Mark had gone, because he feels just desperate enough to resolve this thing that he’d gladly walk down a hundred strange streets to bring Mark back if he needed to. There’s an uncomfortable tension in his gut that’s always there, tying him up in knots and reminding him of its presence whenever he and Mark argue. Everything else is quiet.

He wonders when the sound of silence stopped being comforting and began to suffocate him instead.

Maybe it’s because Mark is always making noise, even when he has nothing to say. He whistles and sings absentmindedly whenever he’s working on something, and he talks to himself when he’s trying to follow a lead or work out information he’s been given.

He’s neither gentle nor considerate when it comes to moving objects and pulling things apart and putting them back together. He makes a ruckus while brushing his teeth in the mornings and he throws his shoes around like they’re paper balls and he’s aiming for a garbage can. Mark rolls around in bed and grabs onto Jack, he talks in his sleep, and yells down hallways when he has a question he can’t be bothered to wait to ask.

Jack’s life has been nothing but noise ever since Mark entered it, whereas before the silence had meant safety and privacy, now it means something is missing. If things are silent then Mark is gone and Jack is worrying about something, instead of relishing in his own isolation.

Right now, he’d even take the sound of Mark’s angry voice and heavy fists on wood over the sound of him being gone.

-.-

It’s hours before Jack hears the sound of the door handle turning and he’s making himself tea when Mark walks in.

“It’s me,” Mark says, because it’s routine, no matter how angry they are at each other. If he hadn’t called out, Jack would have immediately assumed he was an intruder.

“I’m making tea,” Jack calls back, because he isn’t the kind of person who holds on to grudges and everyone should be able to drink tea while their feelings are hurt. Inwardly, the knot of stress that’s been tightening in his belly relaxes just a little bit. Mark is back home, so everything will be okay.

Mark’s mostly quiet as he rounds the corner, but his hands are warm on Jack’s shoulders and he presses his forehead into his lover’s hair. His fingers rub tiny circles into the t-shirt hanging loosely from Jack’s shoulders, and Jack calms down a little more.

“It’s okay,” Mark murmurs to him, warm and tired. The relief Jack feels is overwhelming. “I’m here, it’s all okay, I promise.”

Jack pauses from stirring sugar into his mug, reaching up to lace his free hand in one of Mark’s.

“I’m sorry I’m a shit,” he says back, because saying it makes him feel ten times lighter. He _is_ a shit, sometimes.

“When I said I didn’t care about what you do—I didn’t mean it,” Mark tells him, so low and guilty Jack can barely hear him. “I want you to do whatever makes you happy, but not if it puts you in danger. Everything we do—everything I do—it’s not worth your life.”

Jack settles closer, leaning up against Mark’s body and itching to turn around and look him in the eyes. He’s always been tactile in times like this and being with Mark has made that trait a thousand times more prevalent.

“How do you think I feel every time I see you walk out that door, wired up and armed to the teeth?” he asks, serious.

Mark’s fingers slow for a minute, caught off guard, then continue their gentle movements. “What?”

“I mean it,” Jack says, not moving from his position. Mark needs to understand, right here, right now. If Jack gives in and lets Mark coerce him into kissing their problems away, this conversation will only be postponed until later.

“This is a two way street, Mark Fischbach. Just because you have years of training doesn’t mean you’re not putting your life on the line every time you take a new job, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m not trapped here worrying about you twenty-four seven. Even with me talking in your ear on the job, it’s not the same as being with you.”

Mark looks confused.

“This isn’t about me, Jack,” he replies slowly, shaking his head. “It’s about you. Just because I’m in danger doesn’t mean I’m going to die.  I know what I’m doing.”

Jack senses there’s going to be more to that, and he’s heard it all before.

“No, Mark!” his rebuttal is louder than he’d intended it to be, and Mark startles. “This is about _you_. I’m making it about you because you don’t care about you and I love _you_ , okay?”

“Jack—.”

“I said no.” Jack breaks free and backs up, turning around to see Mark, silent but hunched forward, his shoulders rigid, tense. “I need you to understand something. You want me to be safe, right?”

His silence prompts Mark to nod, albeit with an edge of irritation.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. You get anxious when you think one of your adversaries might find out that I exist, or that I mean more to you than just the voice in your ear telling you what to do and where to go.”

Jack is desperate, and maybe it shows in his eyes but his voice is steady and calm, because he’s going to make Mark listen to him and he’s going to make him understand that if something were to happen to him, then Jack would literally die. The end.

“You don’t like the idea of me being near firearms or blades or poisons anymore than I do, and you won’t go out in public with me by your side if you think you’re being watched or we’re in hostile territory. And every time I tell you I’m okay, that I can handle myself because I’m a big boy, you say the same thing.”

Mark finishes for him.

“I say no because there are too many risks, and none of them are worth losing you for anything,” Jack can tell just by his tone of voice how much he means it, and that’s why he absolutely has to understand that Jack means it too. Every single word of it.

“Mark, every single fear you’ve ever had about losing me, every time you’re worried that I might come into contact with someone who could kill me, every terrifying thought you’ve had about me while you’re away…I’ve felt all of those too, except the difference is that I feel them about you.” His voice wobbles just slightly, but the words are coming much faster now and Mark is still being silent, so he continues.

“It’s not fair of you to expect me to stay hidden all day just because you’re afraid for my life, and then turn around and expect me to just let you go out there without a fight and risk your life just for a kill. I don’t care if it’s your job—I’m going to worry and I’m going to make you take precautions,” he gestures in the direction of the table behind them, where the hair dye hasn’t moved from before.

“You can’t guard me with your life and expect me not to worry about yours in the process,” Jack is incredibly tired. It’s been the longest day he’s had in months, ever since the job Mark took that required him to gun down an old friend of his who he’d still been on good terms with.

Mark isn’t looking at him anymore, just staring blankly at the peeling paint on the wall across from him, and Jack wonders if the idea that he might actually be important to someone is causing his higher brain activity to malfunction.

Jack’s shoulders slump dejectedly, and he gives into the desire to hold Mark the way he’s been wanting to since he’d returned.

“I know you say I’m the only good thing in your life,” he admits softly, trying not to overwhelm his lover anymore than he already has. “But you’re the only good thing in mine, as well. I need you as much as you need me, Mark. That’s not going to go away, not ever.”

His arms wrap tightly around Mark’s waist until his wrists are resting on the kitchenette counter behind them and his forehead comes to press against Mark’s, because straightforwardness is key, always.

Mark’s arms wrap around his shoulders and very suddenly there’s a hand on his cheek, warm and calloused but very, very familiar.

“I know, Jack,” Mark relents, and he sounds god-awful. “For fuck’s sake, I know and I’m sorry. I don’t ever want you to worry about me, but there isn’t a thing in the world that I would ever put above your safety. Not even my own, and I wouldn’t want to.”

Jack’s throat feels tight and clogged with emotion he doesn’t want to feel, because what good is Jack’s safety if Mark’s isn’t guaranteed also?

“Can you at least understand, though?” he says through the scratchy feeling in the back of his throat that usually means tears are on the way. “Can you at least understand why I need you to let me keep you safe, even if it just means letting me dye your hair a stupid color? That’s all I ask, Mark.”

Mark hesitates, but his grip on Jack tightens.

“Will dyeing my hair solve this argument at least?” he asks quietly, and he sounds so serious about it that it’s almost, _almost_ comical.

Jack sniffs, and kisses him once. “Maybe. It might win this particular battle at least, and that’s one step closer to ending the war.”

Mark laughs, and it sounds more exhausted than joyful, but Jack can hear the relief in it.

“If turning my hair pink will stop you from being upset with me then I think it’s a small price to pay,” he replies, kissing Jack back and running his hand down his spine, stroking gently. “I do have one condition for this though. I’m not letting you win that easily.”

-.-

“I look fucking stupid.”

“Mmm, I think it looks sexy on you,” Mark’s lips trail along the line of his shoulders, stopping briefly where his neck meets his collarbone. He glances up at the screen of Jack’s iPhone, where the front camera is open, and grins into Jack’s skin.

“I look like an ugly ass poser who has nothing going for him except for his affinity for bad dye jobs and his potentially tolerable music taste,” Jack grouses, because in no way had he ever considered dying his hair anything but its natural color once he’d started going grey in high school.

“I don’t know what that means,” Mark responds, still more preoccupied with burying his face in Jack’s skin than listening to his soulmate’s complaints. “I just think it suits you. Like, a lot.”

Jack frowns at the camera lens, and his reflection frowns back. Mark looks incredibly pleased with himself.

“Just because I’m fuckin’ Irish doesn’t mean my hair’s supposed to be green,” he says, scowling at the picture the two of them make. “I don’t want this immortalized on camera forever, thanks very much.”

Mark rolls his eyes, readjusting Jack so he’s sitting more comfortably in his lap, his newly dyed bright pink fringe flopping across his forehead and bringing out the happy redness in his cheeks.

“Just take the damn picture,” he urges, pressing a light kiss to the space behind Jack’s ear. “You look really hot like this and you promised you’d let me fuck you as soon as we got back from the hair salon. You know I’m not good at being patient.”

Jack shivers as Mark’s fingers wind their way down his naked torso, and he can feel how eager his lover is to get on with things from his position on Mark’s lap.

The camera goes off with hardly a flash because the room is still well lit by the bedside lamps, and Mark takes a second to glance at the photo Jack took of the two of them in bed. They’re cuddled together, completely naked and wrapped in the bedsheets with hair still damp and mussed from both the salon and the intense make out session they’d spiraled into the moment they’d made it back to the room.

Mark’s face is pressed into the side of Jack’s neck and he’s smiling, that little secretive smile he gets whenever he’s feeling daring in a way that doesn’t make Jack actually fear for his life. Jack looks less than impressed with the whole thing, but his free hand is intertwined with Mark’s on his lower abdomen and he’s content, happy.

“Okay, no more camera,” Mark says, deftly stealing the phone from Jack’s grip and tossing it in the direction of the nightstand. “I wanna get to the real thing instead, if you don’t mind.”

Jack snorts as Mark shifts him so he’s on his lap facing him instead, that mischievous glint still present in both of his eyes.

“That was the most unsexy lead in to messing around I’ve ever heard come from your mouth,” Jack admonishes, leaning down to pick up where they left off from before. “You’re gonna have to do a whole lot better than that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you liked/didn't like/didn't understand because commentary helps me write a lot better!


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